CHAPTER 1
ISOLDE
The sparkle’s in the lashes. Gotta be. I tilt my chin, flutter my eyes at the camera, and the holo-ring pulses back at me like it’s blushing.
“Give me more tilt, doll,” I murmur to Reflector. “Frame me like I’m about to take over the galaxy.”
My floating droid hums obligingly, optics adjusting in a soft glide, centering me perfectly against the glitter-washed backdrop of Dockpoint Theta. Behind me, banners ripple under artificial air, silver and violet, withIZZY D: THE FINAL FRONTIERscrolling in cascading holo-font. God, my marketing team deserves a raise.
Or a shot to the head. Depends how this stunt goes.
“And we’re live in five... four...” Reflector’s voice is smooth, soothing. My security-net AI, my best lighting tech, and my unlicensed therapist all in one floating orb.
I flash a grin at the camera, tuck a curl of my purple-streaked hair behind my ear, and step forward into the light.
“Three... two... one... now.”
I shine. Iignite.
“Hey, hey, hey, you beautiful stars!” My voice rings bright as starlight. “It’s your girl Izzy D, comin’ to you live from the outerrim of the freakin’ galaxy! And guess what?” I wink. “We’re doin’ it. No clickbait. No green screen. No fake holo renderings. We are really, truly, absolutely about to drop into the Hulk.”
The live feed counter pings. Two million viewers and climbing.
The high hits me like it always does—sharp, clean, instant. The rush of eyes, hearts, creds. The thrill of being the voice in someone’s head halfway across the stars. I pivot, flashing a hip-pop pose, letting the lights catch the high-gloss vinyl of my jacket.
“This ain’t just any flyby, folks. This istheHulk. That ancient mystery ship. That derelict ghost drifting through deep space for over ten thousand years. And you know what? We’ve all seen the probe vids. The grainy scans. But I’m gonna give you the real deal. First contact. Human feet on ancient alloy. No drones, no distance. Just me—and you—on the edge of history.”
The holochat erupts in glitter emojis and reaction gifs. Reflector buzzes near my ear, reading off trending tags: #QueenOfTheStream #GhostShipGoddess #HulkHunters #IzzyDDoesItAgain.
My smile doesn’t falter, but inside? My ribs are a fist.
Because here’s the truth no one ever clips or loops: I’m scared.
Not of the Hulk. Not of the gear or the atmosphere shifts or the weird AI-dead energy of the ancient ship.
I’m scared because I’mnotscared enough.
Because I’ve done so many stunts, flipped so many risks into revenue streams, that I can’t even tell anymore where the act ends and I begin. I’m all sparkle and snark and mid-roll ad pacing, but underneath? There’s this deep, sucking ache. Like maybe I’ve forgotten how to want something that doesn’t fit into a fifteen-second highlight.
But no one wants to see that.
So I dance.
“Let’s take a look at the suit!” I say brightly, stepping into a slow twirl. The camera sweeps with me, catching the shimmer-tech overlay on my armor-corset, the gleaming white boots with stiletto lifts (reinforced, of course), the purple flare skirts fanned with micro-vents. Everything designed to look ridiculous and still save my life if the airlocks fail.
Underneath, I’ve got the standard weave mesh, neuro-responsive. Full skin seal. Comfortable? No. Marketable? Absolutely.
“Custom fitted, vibro-insulated, and totally non-boring,” I chirp, tugging at one sleeve. “And yeah, we got matching gloves. Touchscreen enabled. Breathable. Only three grand a pair. Get ‘em while they’re trending, fam.”
Reflector pulses green. “Live viewers at 3.9 million and rising.”
“Show me comments?”
He streams a few across my vision.MY WIFE.SHE’S REALLY DOING IT.THE PURPLE FIT IS ILLEGAL.ZENTHARIANS SAY HI.SEND PIX FROM THE HULK PLZ.
I laugh, real and bright, and blow a kiss. “I love you guys. Like,mutually assured destructionlevels of love. Now—let’s get this bird in the air.”
The camera feed dims, fades, and Reflector chirps, “Stream suspended. Pre-flight protocols ready.”
